Jane Bowles - My Sister's Hand in Mine - The Collected Works of Jane Bowles

“Why not?” answered the waiter. “I’ve got about three hundred and fifty dollars in the bank.” He did not sit down.

“Where did you get it?” asked Mrs. Quill.

“From my uncle.”

“I guess you feel pretty secure.”

“No.”

Mrs. Quill began to wonder whether or not Toby would come back at all. She pressed her hands together and asked the young waiter if he knew where the gentleman who had been sitting next to her had gone.

“Home, I guess,” said the waiter.

“Well, let’s just have one look in the lobby,” said Mrs. Quill nervously. She beckoned to the waiter to follow her.

They went into the lobby and together they searched the faces of the guests, who were either standing around in groups or sitting along the wall in armchairs. The hotel was much livelier now than it had been when Mrs. Quill first arrived with Toby. She was deeply troubled and hurt at not seeing Toby anywhere.

“I guess I’d better go home and let you get some sleep,” she said absentmindedly to the waiter, “but not before I’ve bought something for Pacifica.…” She had been trembling a little, but the thought of Pacifica filled her with assurance.

“Such an awful, dreadful, mean thing to be alone in the world even for a minute,” she said to the waiter. “Come with me and help me choose something, nothing important, just some remembrance of the hotel.”

“They’re all the same,” said the waiter, following her reluctantly. “Just a lot of junk. I don’t know what your friend wants. You might get her a little pocketbook with Panama painted on it.”

“No, I want it to be specially marked with the name of the hotel.”

“Well,” said the waiter, “most people don’t go in for that.”

“Oh my — oh my,” said Mrs. Quill emphatically, “must I always be told what other people do? I’ve had just about enough of it.” She marched up to the magazine stand and said to the young man behind the counter: “Now, I want something with Hotel Washington written on it. For a woman.”

The man looked through his stock and pulled out a handkerchief on the corner of which were painted two palm trees and the words: Souvenir of Panama.

“Most people prefer this, though,” he said, drawing a tremendous straw hat from under the counter and placing it on his own head.

“You see, it gives you as much shadow as an umbrella and it is very becoming.” There was nothing written on the hat at all.

“That handkerchief,” continued the young man, “most people consider it kind of, you know…”

“My dear young man,” said Mrs. Quill, “I expressly told you that I wanted this gift to bear the words Hotel Washington and if possible also a picture of the hotel.”

“But, lady, nobody wants that. People don’t want pictures of hotels on their souvenirs. Palm trees, sunsets, sometimes even bridges, but not hotels.”

“Do you or do you not have anything that bears the words Hotel Washington?” said Mrs. Quill, raising her voice.

The salesman was beginning to get angry. “I do have,” he said, his eyes flashing, “if you will wait one minute please, madam.” He opened a little gate and went out into the lobby. He was back in a short time carrying a heavy black ash-tray which he set on the counter in front of Mrs. Quill. The name of the hotel was stamped in the center of the ash-tray in yellow lettering.

“Is this the type of thing you wanted?” asked the salesman.

“Why, yes,” said Mrs. Quill, “it is.”

“All right, madam, that’ll be fifty cents.”

“That’s not worth fifty cents.” whispered the waiter to Mrs. Quill.

Mrs. Quill looked through her purse; she was able to find no more than a quarter in change and no bills at all.

“Look,” she said to the young man, “I’m the proprietress of the Hotel de las Palmas. I will show you my bank book with my address written in the front of it. Are you going to trust me with this ash-tray just this once? You see, I came with a gentleman friend and we had a falling out and he went home ahead of me.”

“I can’t help that, madam,” said the salesman.

Meanwhile one of the assistant managers who had been watching the group at the magazine stand from another corner of the lobby thought it time to intervene. He was exceedingly suspicious of Mrs. Quill, who did not appear to him to measure up to the standard of the other guests in any way, not even from a distance. He also wondered what could possibly be keeping the waiter standing in front of the magazine stand for such a long while. He walked over to them looking as serious and as thoughtful as he was able.

“Here’s my bank book,” Mrs. Quill was saying to the salesman.

The waiter, seeing the assistant manager approaching, was frightened and immediately presented Mrs. Quill with the check for the drinks she and Toby had consumed together.

“You owe six dollars on the terrace,” he said to Mrs. Quill.

“Didn’t he pay for them?” she said. “I guess he must have been in an awful state.”

“Can I help you?” the assistant manager asked of Mrs. Quill.

“I’m sure you can,” she said. “I’m the owner of the Hotel de las Palmas.”

“I’m sorry,” the manager said, “but I’m not familiar with the Hotel de las Palmas.”

“Well,” said Mrs. Quill, “I have no money with me. I came here with a gentleman, we had a falling out, but I have my bank book here with me which will prove to you that I will have the money as soon as I can run over to the bank tomorrow. I can’t sign a check because it’s in the savings bank.”

“I’m sorry,” said the assistant manager, “but we extend credit only to guests residing in the hotel.”

“I do that too, in my hotel,” said Mrs. Quill, “unless it is something out of the ordinary.”

“We make a rule of never extending credit…”

“I wanted to take this ash-tray home to my girl friend. She admires your hotel.”

“That ash-tray is the property of the Hotel Washington,” said the assistant manager, frowning sternly at the salesman, who said quickly: “She wanted something with Hotel Washington written on it. I didn’t have anything so I thought I’d sell her one of these — for fifty cents,” he added, winking at the assistant manager, who was standing farther and farther back on his heels.

“These ash-trays,” he repeated, “are the property of the Hotel Washington. We have only a limited number of them in stock and every available tray is in constant use.”

The salesman, not caring to have anything more to do with the ash-tray lest he lose his job, carried it back to the table from which he had originally removed it and took up his position again behind the counter.

“Do you want either the handkerchief or the hat?” he asked of Mrs. Quill as though nothing had happened.

“She’s got all the hats and the hankies she needs,” said Mrs. Quill. “I suppose I’d better go home.”

“Would you care to come to the desk with me and settle the bill?” asked the assistant manager.

“Well, if you’ll just wait until tomorrow—”

“I’m afraid it is definitely against the rules of the hotel, madam. If you’ll just step this way with me.” He turned to the waiter, who was following the conversation intently. “Te necesitan afuera,” he said to him, “go on.”

The waiter was about to say something, but he decided against it and walked slowly away towards the terrace. Mrs. Quill began to cry.

“Wait a minute,” she said, taking a handkerchief from her bag. “Wait a minute — I would like to telephone to my friend Pacifica.”

The assistant manager pointed in the direction of the telephone booths, and she hurried away, her face buried in her handkerchief. Fifteen minutes later she returned, crying more pitifully than before.